The Ice Is Getting Thinner
by Swing Girl At Heart
Summary: Several sounds reached House’s ears all at once. Loud erratic beeping, Foreman barking an order, and, far louder and more unsettling than the others, was something that was both instantly recognizable and frighteningly unfamiliar. Wilson was screaming.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

"Need a favor."

Cuddy looked up from the patient file spread out across her desk to see House limping in. "Forget it. You're not getting off clinic duty."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, jeez, you read my mind. What if I'm hung over? That might inhibit my ability to diagnose all the runny noses out in the waiting room."

Cuddy sighed, frustrated. "House, I am not letting you off clinic duty for a hangover."

"That's nice, but it's not what I came for."

"Then what do you want?"

House paused. "My leg is hurting more than it should. I need you to up my Vicodin dosage."

"I'm not going to give you more drugs when you're addicted enough as it is."

"Okay, here's what'll happen if you _don't_ up the dosage: I'll suffer from severe pain and I won't be able to concentrate on my job, which means you lose more patients, which means I become much more of a liability than I already am. On the other hand, if you _do_, I'll have a lot less pain and therefore be able to focus on things other than myself."

"You only focus on yourself anyway," Cuddy said. "What about Wilson? Why aren't you bugging him about this? He's the one who writes your prescriptions."

"Can't find him," was the only explanation House offered.

"Oh, please, House. I know for a fact that if you want to find somebody, you always find them whether or not they want to be found." Cuddy frowned. "He's not still angry at you about Amber, is he?" When House said nothing, she continued. "Go find him. Talk. Kiss and make up already. You might get some drugs out of it."

* * *

House didn't usually do as he was told, but now he used it as an excuse to go find his former best friend, although he would never admit that to himself or anyone else. Following what he knew to be Wilson's ritual at this particular time of day, he pushed through the door to the cafeteria, his eyes scanning the mess of tables for the oncologist. He finally spotted the Boy Wonder's hunched shoulders in the corner table.

Wilson looked up and sighed discontentedly when House plopped into the chair opposite and snatched a handful of food from his untouched plate.

"Fries?" Wilson offered dryly.

"Nope," House replied, stuffing them in his mouth and reaching for more. "Had some when I came in."

Wilson sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you want?"

It was then that it occurred to House that his former friend was paler than usual, and dark circles had formed beneath his eyes. "I need pills. You write my prescriptions," he stated. "Or had you forgotten?"

"I remember," Wilson said, glaring at him. "I also seem to remember something along the lines of you killing my girlfriend. Go pester Cuddy for drugs, or steal them from the pharmacy; I wouldn't put that past you."

With that, he turned his attention back to the newspaper on the table, signaling that the conversation was over. House ignored it. "I tried Cuddy, and the pharmacist packs a mean punch."

"We all know that your cane doubles as a weapon," Wilson fired back. "I'm gonna be straight with you here. I want you to leave. Now."

House searched his friend's eyes for any trace of emotion he could find that would allow him to stay – guilt, sorrow, anything. Instead, the Boy Wonder returned the stare with a look of stone, his mouth set in a grim line and his jaw clenched. No anger, no sadness – just exhaustion.

House sighed and stood, resigning not to push him too hard. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and limped away without a word.

* * *

Later that afternoon, after enduring another differential with his minions, House threw his oversized tennis ball against the wall over and over again, pondering over why Wilson looked so ill. Was it because there was something actually wrong with him, or just a long string of sleepless nights after Amber was snatched from his side? House ran over their conversation at lunch until his brain was exhausted, trying to catch any signs that would point to either possibility (beside Wilson mentioning House's responsibility for Amber's death) and coming up with nothing. Until it finally hit him, and he announced it to the empty room:

"He wasn't eating."

The door to Cuddy's office banged open for the second time that day, and she covered the mouth of the receiver to protect the colleague on the other end from whatever House was about to say to her. Her eyebrows shot up expectantly.

"Wilson's sick."

"Hold on," she said into the phone, pressing 'hold' and setting it down. "What do you mean, 'Wilson's sick'?"

"He looks like a zombie, and he's not eating. I talked to him in the cafeteria; he never touched his food."

"Yeah, different people deal with grief in different ways, House. It's not an illness to miss somebody after they've died. The concept might be foreign to _you—_"

"Wilson," he interrupted her, "is not the kind of guy who abandons everyday necessities because somebody dies. He wallows, but he doesn't starve himself."

"And just how many of Wilson's loved ones have died since you've been friends?" Cuddy asked him, reaching for the phone again. "He's just unhappy right now. Don't try to make it into something it's not."

House strode forward and pressed the hang-up button just as she picked it up again.

"Dammit, House—" Cuddy started.

"He is _sick._"

"With what?"

"I don't know, but I can figure it out."

Cuddy huffed a frustrated sigh. "Go do your clinic hours."

* * *

"Thirty-eight-year-old male," House announced, limping into the conference room.

"We…have a new case?" Taub asked. "Before we finished the last one?"

"She has MS. Run the tests later." Going over to the whiteboard, House picked up a marker and wrote down two symptoms in his messy handwriting.

"Starvation and aggression?" Foreman read dubiously. "We're treating someone for rabies?"

"If it were that simple, we wouldn't be wasting our time. Also, rabies doesn't cause starvation. But, you _are_ the neurologist; I wouldn't expect you to know that."

Foreman shot him a look as Thirteen cut in. "Is the starvation on purpose or is his body rejecting it?"

"We don't know."

"Well, does he have a medical file we could look at?"

"Probably. But I thought it'd be challenging to do without."

Thirteen cast a confused look at Taub and continued. "Okay… What if it's just stress?"

Taub nodded. "Stress could cause all—"

"It's not stress."

"Can we test this patient for anything?"

"Nope."

"Is…the patient imaginary?" Kutner asked.

"Nope."

Taub was growing tired of this game. "Dr. House, you've given us practically nothing to go on. Can we go run the tests for MS on our _real_ patient now?"

House glared at him, then huffed a sigh. "Fine. Go."

Staring at the board, he heard them leave, and almost jumped when Foreman's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"House, do we know this person?"

"_I_ do. Stripper asked me to treat her boyfriend in return for a month's worth of free lap dances."

Foreman quirked an eyebrow. "You haven't given us the patient file, and those symptoms are ones that you would never be concerned about in a normal case. This one worries you."

House shot him a look, silently willing him to shut up.

"It's Wilson, isn't it?" Foreman said.

"No."

Foreman sighed and stood, heading for the door. "Well, when you have a file or more of a base for diagnosis, let us know."

* * *

Reviewers get a date with a doctor of their choice.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two  
_

"What was _that_ all about?" Kutner mused while running the MS tests in the lab, accompanied by Thirteen and Taub.

"What?" Thirteen asked, frowning.

"House's little imaginary patient."

Her mouth rounded into an _O_ and she shook her head, saying, "I've no clue."

"Whatever it was, it has to be either something he's being forced into or it's just House being House," Taub reasoned. "Those weren't interesting symptoms."

"Unless the symptoms belong to someone he knows."

The three of them looked up to see Foreman standing in the doorway.

"Someone he knows?" Kutner echoed.

"None of you have noticed how Wilson isn't looking exactly healthy right now?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Wilson's thirty-eight," Thirteen said, her sharp brows pulling together in realization.

"It's just grief, though," Taub said. There was a long pause, and he looked at Foreman. "Isn't it?"

* * *

"We need to talk."

Wilson looked up from a patient file to see House standing in his doorway. "What makes you think I have anything to say to you?"

House ignored the question. "Are you hydrophobic?"

"What? No. Get out."

"Guess it's not rabies, then."

"House, what the hell are you talking about? I have work to do!"

"The bald kids can wait."

"No, they can't," Wilson argued. "Seriously, House, if you don't leave, I'm going to call security. You're harassing me."

House scratched his forehead, torn. He finally decided that figuring out what was wrong with the oncologist would have to be done from a distance. Emerging from the elevator on the first floor, he headed to the ER to find Cameron.

"How long do you reckon a grief period lasts?" he asked when he found her filling in a chart at the nurses station. "I'd use my own experience, but…I don't have any."

She frowned and answered slowly, "That…would depend." She closed the chart and placed it on the stack, leaning on her elbows and looking him in the eye. "Give him time."

"He's sick. He looks like the walking dead, he's acting angry all the time—"

"To you? That's a shocker," Cameron interrupted. "He's not sick, House, he's sad."

"I'll send him a Hallmark."

She gave him a look. "You just don't want to face your guilt over Amber. Wilson being angry means you can't do anything to fix it. Him being sick means that you can."

* * *

Cuddy looked up at the sound of her door opening, expecting it to be House, but instead seeing Wilson entering.

"You got a minute?" he asked.

"Sure."

He handed her an envelope. "My letter of resignation."

"What? Wilson, you—"

"I need a change, okay? And I'm not going to get it here. I'm sorry, but…"

"Has this anything to do with House?"

He gritted his teeth.

"When are you going to make up with him?"

"Don't push this," he growled. "I can do what I want with my life."

Cuddy frowned, wondering why he was being so defensive. House was right, Wilson did look ill – very ill. His cheeks were slightly sunken, and his face was much paler than it should be. Then she began to think that Wilson was right. Maybe he did need a change. House certainly wasn't going to help that situation if he stayed. She sighed and nodded, sadly watching him leave.

He stopped just as he got to the door, leaning his hand against it and hanging his head. "You okay?" she asked him.

He flapped a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "Just feel a little dizzy is all."

Her brows knitted together and she circled around her desk, going to his side as he righted himself, giving his head a shake to clear the cobwebs. Then, his legs buckled beneath him and he landed on the hard floor. Before either he or Cuddy could react to the sudden change, he scrambled to the trash can by the door and emptied his stomach of what little was in it. She dropped to her knees next to him, her hand on his back, an expression of extreme worry and concern bending her pretty features out of shape.

"Sorry," Wilson breathed, inhaling deeply through his nose and trying to swallow the nausea.

"Wilson, you are _not_ okay," Cuddy said. "What's going on?" She reached forward to put her palm to his forehead, but he slapped her palm away.

"Don't touch me." Her jaw dropped slightly at his hostility, but he continued, the belligerent tone vanished from his voice as swiftly as it had appeared. "I ate at this Chinese place last night, it's nothing to—"

Before he could finish his sentence, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor, his body limp. Cuddy banged on the door, getting her secretary's attention and shouting, "I need a nurse in here!"

* * *

In the ER, Cuddy stood by Wilson's bedside, watching him sleep as the heart monitor beep steadily. The beat of a cane on the floor grew louder as House walked up beside her, taking in the scene of his friend lying in bed.

"Told you so."

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A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed/favorited/etc. More would be nice :) Hint, hint.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

"New symptoms," House reported loudly when his team returned to the conference room. He was sitting on the glass table, staring at the whiteboard, which now had a list of five.

"Louisa threw up?" Kutner asked, confused by the two recent additions. "After we left her room five seconds ago?"

"No, our _new_ patient, genius."

"Oh, the imaginary one," he said as they took their seats and Foreman walked through the door.

"I got his file," he stated, handing a copy to each of them.

"'_James Evan Wilson'_?" Thirteen read, astonished. "Foreman was right."

"Squealer," House muttered.

"Wilson's middle name is Evan?"

"Focus, Kutner," Taub drawled, frowning at the file. "He passed out?"

Foreman nodded and sat next to Thirteen. "In Cuddy's office, right after vomiting. Heart slowed down too much; didn't pump enough blood to his brain."

"Digoxin antidepressant poisoning would explain bradycardia…" Thirteen mused aloud.

"He'd have ventricular dysrhythmia as well," Taub said.

"Ultrasound his heart to make sure," House said, still staring at the board. "Malnutrition would explain all of these – except the insomnia and aggression."

"When has Wilson ever been aggressive?" Foreman asked.

"Since he thinks I killed his girlfriend," House stated, little more forcefully than he'd intended.

"Then it can't be counted as a symptom," Taub said.

"No, Cuddy said he was acting that way towards her, too," Foreman stated. "Just before he blacked out. It's definitely a symptom, and it's in his brain – at least partially."

"Foreman and Thirteen, do an MRI," House ordered, heaving himself off the table.

"We can't do that," said Thirteen. "He's got a molar implant. It would rip it out of his jawbone."

House frowned. Why hadn't he known that? "CT, then. Check for any lesions, tumors, anything. Kutner, test his blood for the antidepressant poisoning, and Taub, ultrasound his heart. Let's see what's stopping the Boy Wonder from flying."

* * *

"You okay?" Taub asked, keeping his eyes on the ultrasound monitor, trying to fill the awkward silence that had settled over the room after Kutner had departed with the blood samples.

"I'm in the hospital and I have a headache," was Wilson's monotonous reply.

"We're testing you for digoxin poisoning," Taub informed him.

"I'm not on antidepressants."

"Well, you know House's theory better than anybody. 'Everybody lies'," Taub quoted with a hint of a smile.

"I am _not _on antidepressants," Wilson repeated forcefully, enunciating with precision.

Taub frowned at him, but brushed it off, instead asking another question in regard to Wilson's bloodshot eyes. "You get enough sleep at night?"

"Never," the oncologist replied curtly.

"Ever? Or just since Amber died?"

Wilson's jaw clenched, and he spoke quietly, confirming the latter.

Taub's only response was to turn off the ultrasound, stating, "No arrhythmia, your heart's fine. I'll page Foreman, you're getting a CT scan."

* * *

"Do you think House is blowing this out of proportion?" Thirteen asked Foreman as they sat in the CT Room booth, the x-rays of their colleague's brain slowly appearing on the screen.

"I don't know," Foreman replied, focused on the screen. "What I _do_ know is that I'm not seeing anything in his brain, and there's nothing wrong with his heart. So…it would seem he's getting sick from nothing, which means that yes, House is probably pursuing one his paranoid theories."

"Still," she said. "He _is_ being pretty high-strung."

"Wait," Foreman leaned closer to the screen, squinting. Thirteen stood to look over his shoulder.

"It's just a shadow," she said. "Nothing to worry about."

"_Hey, guys?_" Wilson's voice came through the mike. "_I'm starting to feel nauseous again…_"

"Two more minutes. We're almost done, just hold still," Thirteen assured him.

"_Now would be better,_" he urged.

Foreman sighed. "There's nothing here. Get him out."

The minute he emerged from the machine, the oncologist-turned-patient sat up and vomited onto the floor. "Christ," he muttered when he was done, wiping his lip with the back of his hand and pulling himself up into a sitting position.

Thirteen rubbed his back. "You'll be fine," she assured him. "House is doing everything he—"

"If it were up to me, he wouldn't be on the case," he interrupted her.

Foreman intervened. "Wilson, you know perfectly well that House is the best doctor in the state. If anybody can—"

"You think I'm worried about his credentials?" Wilson said, the hostility evident with every syllable, his bloodshot eyes trained on Foreman's face. "Don't make me laugh; I know the bastard's qualifications better than any of you."

"Are…you okay?" Foreman asked uncertainly.

"Of course I'm not okay!" Wilson almost shouted, lifting his hand so that Foreman could see his wrist. "I'm being fed through an IV tube! And it doesn't help that—" He paused, a frown creeping over his face as he reached up to his nose. "I'm bleeding," he said calmly.

Foreman immediately reached forward and tilted the oncologist's head back to better see his face in the dim light. A dark tendril of blood was winding its way out of one nostril, and one more just emerging from his tear duct. Just then, the monitors beeped erratically and Wilson fell backwards, every muscle in his body jerking violently as Thirteen held him down and Foreman did everything he could to stop him from biting off his tongue.  


* * *

  
Reviews make writers happy :D


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Before I continue this... I received a review from an anonymous person that stated that the medical aspect of this story wasn't as realistic as it could be. I'm not bitching about this; I appreciate the review very much, but I though I'd clarify. Yes, this IS a medical mystery and yes, I AM trying to make it legitimate as possible. However, I am also only in high school and have never gone to med school, and what research I've done has been on various medical websites. Also, Wilson's affliction is something I'm inventing - the misdiagnoses will all be real, however. So! Without further ado... I bring you Chapter Four.

* * *

_Chapter Four_

"A seizure means it's got to be affecting his brain," Foreman said when the team had regathered in the differential room. "And yet his brain seems healthy."

"Are we looking at the same file?" House asked him.

"Maybe we should be looking for something smaller than a tumor," Taub said. "A virus could be attacking his brain, affecting his motor skills."

"If it were a virus in his head, his stomach wouldn't be rejecting whatever he puts into it," Thirteen countered. "_And_ he'd have a fever. It also doesn't explain the bleeding."

"What about an STD?" Taub suggested.

"No STD known to man would cause all of these symptoms!" Thirteen argued.

House tilted his head, watching Taub as he talked. "But what about a combination of them? They could have set off one another, caused a reaction—"

"Thirteen's right," Foreman told him.

"They're both right." All heads turned to House. "He doesn't have an STD. But Taub has a point, regardless of his lack of standard medical knowledge. This could be something he got from Amber. Check her medical file."

"Will he let us do that?" Thirteen asked.

"Can't say no if we don't ask him," House replied.

"That's immoral," Kutner said.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Which would you rather have? Option One," House counted off on his fingers. "Patient doesn't know that we're looking to see if his dead girlfriend is the source of his disease, we find that she is, we cure him. Option Two: Patient _still_ doesn't know, we find nothing, we've eliminated a possibility, and the patient's none the wiser. No harm, no foul. Option Three: We ask, patient says no, it turns out that it _is_ something she gave him, but guess what? It's too late and he dies. Game over."

"Game over?" Thirteen repeated. "You're acting as if this is a regular case with an everyday patient!"

"That's exactly what it is!" House shouted, leaning on his cane. "You think I should treat him any different just because he's a colleague? I do that and he _will_ die. Go check her file."

Thirteen opened her mouth to argue, then clamped it shut and walked out without a word, Foreman and Taub following after her. Kutner remained, standing by the door but hesitant to leave.

"Why are you still here?" House asked him haughtily.

"He's more than a colleague to you," Kutner told him. "And you know that."

"What's more important to you? Your job? Or lecturing me? Because if you go with the second one, you'll lose the first."

Kutner had nothing to say to that, so instead he gave a slight nod and hurried after his fellows, leaving House to stare at the board and try to sort through his thoughts on his own.

* * *

"Hey, are you asleep?" Kutner entered Wilson's room, observing that the lights were off and the shades were closed, despite the fact that it was only late afternoon.

"Trying to be," came the muffled reply from the bed. "What is it? House come up with some far-fetched theory about what's wrong with me?"

"Yes and no." Wilson rolled over and sat upright, a frown on his face as he waited for Kutner to continue. "House thinks that you may have gotten something from Amber. He wants to—"

A scornful laugh interrupted the younger doctor. "I should have known."

"He wants to check her history for anything she could have given you. I just thought you should be aware of it."

"Leave it to House to blame it on the dead girl."

Kutner leapt at the opportunity to defend his boss. "He's not blaming—"

"He's blaming it on somebody who can't argue with him because he wants the easy way out," Wilson said, venom dripping from his words.

"Look, you're not thinking clearly right now…" Kutner said. "I'm gonna have the nurse bring you some meds so you can get some shut-eye."

"No."

"What?"

"No," Wilson repeated. "I don't want any meds. They'll mess up my test results if you need to take any more."

"Well, you need sleep," Kutner advised, referring to the ever-darkening circles beneath the sick doctor's glassy eyes.

"I need sleep, I need solid food, and I need some Advil to get rid of this damn headache," Wilson said, rubbing his forehead exhaustedly. "But Advil does nothing, sleeping pills screw up my tests, and I throw up whatever I put in my stomach."

Kutner frowned. "How long have you had the headache?"

"Since I woke up in the ER. Ugh, my _eyes_ hurt," he complained, pressing the heels of his palms on his eyelids and wincing.

"It's probably just from getting no sleep," Kutner said, returning to Wilson's bedside and withdrawing his penlight from his lab coat pocket. "Open your eyes."

Wilson did as he was told, letting his hands drop to his lap and opening his eyes wide. Kutner's intentions of testing his pupil dilation with the penlight were in vain, however. As soon as the light landed on Wilson's eye, he hissed in pain and flinched away. "What is it?" Kutner asked.

Wilson gave his head a shake, blinking a few times. "It's too bright," he explained.

Kutner frowned, but gave it another try, keeping a hand on the oncologist's head to hold him in place. This time, Wilson let out a noise that was halfway between a yelp and a shout, ducking from under Kutner's hand and pressing his hands to his eyes again.

"This should _not_ be hurting you," Kutner said, bewildered.

"Reality begs to differ," Wilson snapped, brushing at his nose. "Crap, I'm bleeding again. I thought you put me on blood thickeners already!"

Kutner called out into the hall, "Can I get a nurse in here with some gauze?" before returning to Wilson and tilting his head back to slow the nosebleed. "We _did_ put you on thickeners. They must have worn off sooner than they should've."

Just then, a nurse entered, flipping the light switch. Wilson screamed as the blinding fluorescent glare went past what his retinas could handle. "Hey, turn that off!" Kutner cried, clamping his hand over the struggling Wilson's eyes to protect them. The lights went out again, and the nurse cracked open the shades to give them just enough to work by. Kutner kept his hand where it was, not wanting Wilson to react to the light coming in from the hallway, as the nurse calmly and quickly cleaned up the blood trickling down his upper lip. She then replaced the banana bag, giving Wilson more blood thickeners, and brought over the cuff to take his blood pressure.

Although he couldn't see, Wilson lashed out when he felt the cuff being wrapped around his arm, ducking away from Kutner's hand again and slapping the nurse's hands away from his person. "Get away from me," he hissed, the comment directed at both of them. He tore off the cuff and threw it to the ground before either could protest.

"Wilson, what are you doing?" Kutner asked, his eyes growing slightly wide. Dr. Jeykll had suddenly transformed into Mr. Hyde.

"I can't _stand_ this any more! Tests and tubes and scans and needles!" he ranted, his voice rising in pitch. "I've had enough! _God damn it, get this thing out of me!_"

And one swift movement, he reached over and ripped the IV out of his arm.

* * *

Reviewers will get a virtual cookie of their choice.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five  
_

It was nearing evening when Cuddy poked her head into House's office to ask, "Any progress on Wilson's condition?"

House looked up and shook his head. "He's getting worse."

Cuddy sighed, walking further into the room and sitting in the chair by his desk. "You should visit him," she said.

"Why would I do that? He's my patient."

"He's your friend."

"Even more of a reason not to visit."

Cuddy changed topics. "What possibilities have you come up with?"

"Digoxin poisoning," House said. "There's also a few insecticides… Nothing we've thought of has explained all the symptoms, though. Only some. We're missing something."

"You'll figure out," Cuddy assured him. "You'll figure it out and you'll make things right."

"Your vote of confidence is overwhelming," House said sarcastically. "Big help."

"Well, if you're going to be that way about it—"

Cuddy's sentence was broken in half as House's pager went off on the desk by his hand. He picked it up, glancing at the screen, and said, "Gotta go." Cuddy grew worried and followed alongside him as he limped to Wilson's room on the floor below.

Thirteen and Taub rushed by as they passed the nurses station, disappearing into Wilson's room. Several overlapping sounds reached House and Cuddy's ears all at once – erratic beeping from the monitors, an order barked in a voice that was definitely Foreman's, and, far louder and more unsettling than the others, was something that was both instantly recognizable and frighteningly unfamiliar at once. Wilson was screaming.

House picked up his pace and stopped short at the ward doorway, a cold hand gripping the heart he didn't like to admit he had, as he took in the scene before him. For a moment, all he could see were Wilson's legs, rigid and kicking, through the doctors and nurses swarming around him. Then Cuddy's voice, sounding very far away, called one of his team over – he wasn't sure which – and a gap opened up in the wall of white coats and purple scrubs. Wilson's back was arched and he was fighting off every hand that tried to hold him down, his eyes squeezed shut and the veins in his neck bulging as he writhed. The monitors showed his heartbeat racing and…was that _blood_ on the sheets next to him?

"What happened?" House asked the team member talking to Cuddy, his voice almost lost amongst the clamor and his eyes never moving from his sick friend.

"He ripped out his IV," the doctor answered, his voice barely registering in House's head as Kutner's.

House didn't hear the rest as he limped over to the side of the bed, seeing the IV tube trailing a small streak of red on the floor, and turned to Wilson. Thirteen moved aside while keeping a viselike grip on the struggling man's wrist.

"Wilson," House tried to divert his attention away from the hands grabbing at his flailing limbs. "Wilson, look at me."

Somehow, his words made their way through to the ailing man's brain, and his eyes flew open, wildly reeling around the room and finally landing on House. The gruff older doctor was, for once, truly frightened by the look in Wilson's eyes – they were glassed over and bloodshot from so many sleepless nights, his expression deranged and unhinged. Sweat beaded on his forehead, a drop sliding down his temple, and he lunged, his hand breaking free of Thirteen's grasp and raking across House's jaw, his fingernails drawing blood.

House staggered back from the blow, his hand flying to his stinging face in shock. Wilson was now sitting up and leaning towards him like a feral, rabid animal, his teeth bared and his eyes crazed. Foreman's burly arm around his shoulders was the only thing stopping him from attacking House full on.

"_It's all your fault,_" Wilson seethed, his voice a terrifying combination of a whisper and a shout, his wide, burning dark eyes focused on House's blue ones. A moment of silence passed, and a menacing smile wound its way around his mouth, tugging the corners up, and an unnerving laugh rattled out of his throat. "You think you can escape from that? No, no, no, no, no. Not you. You're the first in line." Wilson's taunting voice dropped to a hiss. His face then stretched into a fully-fledged grin and his voice faded off into high-pitched mocking cackles.

House couldn't help but stare at the raving man who wasn't – _couldn't_ be – his best and only friend. _It's just the illness_, the logical side of him reasoned. _Once you figure out what's wrong, you can cure him. You can make him better._

But what in hell could he do? This was out of his league.

He swallowed involuntarily, watching as the sedatives Thirteen had injected finally took effect and Wilson's eyes slowly grew dull. A sigh escaped from his lips as he slipped into unconsciousness.

"House?" Cuddy shook him back to reality. "You okay?" Her hand was on his shoulder. He glanced at her and then looked back to Wilson's motionless form on the bed. If House hadn't seen what had happened only moments before, he would have assumed him to be peacefully asleep.

Cuddy spoke again, giving him a direct order. "You do not work in the clinic until you have solved this."

* * *

I feel awful for torturing Wilson like this. Oh, well. Reviews would make me feel better and write more :D


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six  
_

"Jesus, what happened to _you_?" Cameron exclaimed when House approached her in the ER shortly after Wilson's episode.

"I pissed off another patient," he said, plastering a falsely triumphant expression on his face. It was at least partly true, anyways. "Cuddy sent me down here for your expert patching-up skills." He suspected that his boss wanted him to get both physical and emotional bandaging from his old softhearted duckling, but he hoped that Cameron would stick with the physical part.

She nodded and led him to one of the ER beds. "Hold still," she instructed as she swabbed the scratches with a solution to clean it out. He sucked air through his teeth as the alcohol stung the raw flesh where Wilson's nails had unceremoniously removed the protective skin and Cameron gave him a look. "Oh, come on, it's not that bad." She gave the still-bleeding wound one last swipe from ear to chin and retrieved the gauze and tape from the fully stocked shelf against the wall. "So, are you going to tell me what really happened?" she asked.

"I told you," he said, holding the gauze in place as she cut pieces of tape.

"If you had pissed off a patient, he would have punched you, not scratched you. I've treated plenty of your black eyes from such incidents."

"This patient had a particularly violent cat."

"With claws this size?" Cameron said. "Psych patient?"

House didn't answer until she finished taping the gauze to his jawline. "Wilson," he said.

She frowned. "What?" Then her face cleared and her eyes flew open further than he'd thought possible. "Wait, you're – you're not saying…_Wilson_ did this?"

He heaved himself off the bed. "Hard to believe that the Boy Wonder is capable of violence, but—"

Cameron circled around him and pulled the curtain closed, giving them a small amount of privacy. "House, this isn't violence. This is psych ward stuff."

"Interesting observation," House replied. "Especially considering that Wilson is now fully sedated and shackled to his bed on the second floor."

"_What?!_" Cameron cried. "How did I not hear about this?"

"You did," he said. "I told you he was sick, but you told me to 'give him time.' Nice suggestion, by the way."

Cameron put a hand to her forehead, not really listening to House's remark. "What's wrong with him?"

"He fainted in a very womanlike fashion in Cuddy's office yesterday, and has since proceeded to throw up all over the CT scanner, have a seizure, remove his own IV in a way that was _very_ unprofessional, and be a total bitch to everybody he talks to. Again, that was the major tipoff. Wilson being aggressive is a big neon sign hung around his neck saying that something's wrong." House gestured to the bandages on his face for emphasis. "If it were Foreman, I would've thought nothing of it until he started bleeding out his eyes. Oh yeah, that was another symptom – the sinus bleed."

"Oh, my God," Cameron breathed, her mouth hanging open.

"On the upside, though," House continued. "It's gotten me out of clinic duty. See? Something good comes out of everything."

"I'm sorry," Cameron said.

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry that this is happening to you," she clarified, her expression softening into sympathy.

"Oh, this?" he gestured to the scratches. "Nothing I can't handle."

"No, I meant—"

"I know what you meant. You want to let me out of here so I can get back to work?"

Cameron sighed and pulled the curtain open, allowing House to limp past and make a beeline for the elevators. Before she went back to work, she made herself promise to visit Wilson later – she couldn't _quite_ believe what House had just told her, and she wanted to confirm it for herself. Briefly, she wondered if Chase knew already, and made a second resolution to talk to him about it later. Feeling disturbed that the rock in the House–Wilson friendship was crumbling, she pushed it to the back of her mind and returned to her practice.

* * *

"This is _really_ freaking me out," Kutner said to the rest of the team as they left the ward, leaving their sedated colleague secured to the bed.

"Tell me about it," Thirteen said, rubbing her arm where Wilson had attempted the same courtesy he'd shown House when she'd tried to hold his arm down.

Kutner noticed the movement and asked, concerned, "Did he get you too?"

She shook her head. "Almost." They filed into the conference room and regathered around the table, Kutner heading straight for the coffee machine. "Do you think it could still be a virus now that he's got a fever?"

"It's possible," Foreman said.

"Could also be an infection," a voice said from the doorway.

They turned to see their boss, now with gauze taped to his jaw from ear to chin, entering and limping to the whiteboard, hooking his cane over the top of the frame and adding onto the list of symptoms. The board now read in House's messy handwriting:

_Malnutrition_

_Insomnia_

_Bradycardia_

_Aggression_

_Bleeding_

_Seizures_

_Light sensitivity_

Kutner spoke up. "Just before the light started to bother him, he said he'd had a bad headache since waking up in the ER. A migraine could have been the original symptom and caused the retinal sensitivity."

"Or," House started slowly, tilting his head at the board. "Both of them could have been caused by the bleed. He's bleeding in his head, it builds up pressure, gives him a whopping headache. Blood in his sinuses would put pressure behind his eyes, making his retinas malfunction, plus the nosebleed."

"So light sensitivity isn't a symptom of the disease; it's a symptom of a symptom," Kutner said.

"It makes sense," Foreman agreed. "I'll go do a cranial ultrasound."

"Taub, go with him," House ordered. Then, the familiar look of epiphany cleared his face, his eyes widened slightly and he turned around to address the room. "Did anybody check his blood sugar levels?"

Thirteen frowned. "You think he might be diabetic?"

"Answer the question."

"No."

"Then go check it," he said. Remembering that they probably hadn't had a chance to look over Amber's history, he told Kutner to do so. Once the four of them were out of the room, House sighed and added one more to the list – the one symptom he really, _really_ didn't want to see when talking about Wilson:

_Dementia_

_

* * *

_

A/N: I'm gonna try to get one more chapter up before I have to leave - school's getting out and I gotta go back home for the summer. Once I'm there, I'll be able to upload til the end of June, when we head for vacation with no internet. Reviews will make me work harder for Chapter 7 :D:D:D


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cameron wasn't able to get away from the ER until her shift ended. Without changing out of her work clothes and lab coat, she found Wilson's name and room number on the patient list at the nurses station and went in search of him. She found him on the second floor, in the corner ward, with the blinds closed and lights off. Hesitantly, she tiptoed through the door and slid it shut behind her, taking care not to make too much noise.

Wilson was lying prostrate, his face relaxed and his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling steadily. His wrists and ankles were loosely clamped in the psychiatric hospital shackles, holding him to the bed should he wake up. Cameron's breath hitched in her chest at the sight of them, and she paused before moving closer. Taking out her penlight, she bent down to examine Wilson's left hand – she had to prove to herself that the story House had provided behind the deep scratches was true, although she desperately wanted him to be lying. Finding nothing, she picked up Wilson's right hand. There — beneath the nails he'd kept clean and trimmed so diligently, something was collected as if it had been shoved there. Reddish brown flecked with white. House's skin.

Cameron flinched and stood upright again, backing away and willing herself not to throw up. She'd seen horrible things in hundreds of patients, even some colleagues… but _Wilson?_ How on earth could this happen to him? Oh, God, and she'd told House not to do anything! How could she have been so _stupid_? She'd worked under him for long enough to know that he was always right; why hadn't she listened?

A soft groan brought Cameron back to her senses. The sedatives were wearing off. She returned to the side of the bed as Wilson slowly returned to consciousness.

"Hey," she whispered when his eyes fluttered open. "How are you feeling?"

He said nothing, but only allowed his eyes to travel around the room, looking everywhere but at her. When he finally did make eye contact, his brow knitted in confusion and he blinked a few times. Cameron comfortingly placed her hand on his burning forehead. "You doing okay?"

"What happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Cameron sighed, unsure of what to tell him. "You had a little episode," she finally said.

Even more puzzled, he tried to sit up, then his eyes flew wide open in shock upon discovering his restraints. "What—?"

"It – it's okay," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"_Why are these on me?_" he cried.

"Wilson, just – please, relax," Cameron pleaded.

"_What are you doing to me?_" Tears started to leak out of his eyes and his voice rose in hysterics. "_Please…_take them off…"

Cameron struggled with the rock in her throat, trying to calm him down. "Listen, Wilson, listen to me," she said, forcing him to look her in the eye. "You have to keep those on for awhile, all right? There's nothing we can do about it. They just want to make sure that you don't do anything—"

"_Take them off!_" he screamed, breathing hard. "Please, I'm not going to hurt anybody—"

"You hurt House."

"It was an _accident!_ I promise, I won't do anything, just take them off!"

"Wilson, I can't—" Cameron choked up. It was unbelievably hard to see someone she had looked up to for so long in this position of helplessness, and it was breaking her inconveniently large heart. She was the softie of House's original team, after all. "I'm going to give you some more sedatives, okay? So you can sleep through this."

"_No!_" He thrashed against his bonds, making Cameron jump. "No more _drugs!_ I just – just want to get the cuffs off…" his voice slowly calmed, dropping in volume. "I swear…"

Cameron sighed, torn. "How about a compromise? I'll take them off, but only for a few minutes until I leave. Then they have to go back on."

He nodded, whispering, "Okay."

She drew a deep breath and freed his ankles, and then his hands. He seemed to relax after that, a small smile crossing his features as he settled back into his pillows, his eyes wearily sliding shut. "Thank you…"

Cameron was hesitant to ask, but she did anyway. "Wilson, do you…remember what made you try to hurt House?"

His eyes clicked open again, and he gave her a strange look. "What do you mean?"

Cameron frowned. "You… you scratched him. You said so yourself only a minute ago." There was no recognition in his face. "Don't you remember?"

He shook his head in denial, his hands curling into fists on his temples. "No… You're trying to confuse me," he accused quietly. "I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything."

"Wilson," she gently tried to get his attention.

"I didn't do anything," he repeated.

Resuming her battle with the rock in her throat, she reached forward to give him a consoling pat on his shoulder. His arm shot up and his fingers snaked around her wrist, making her gasp and try unsuccessfully to pull away. "_Don't. Touch. Me,_" he snarled.

She yanked her hand free of his grasp, her entire body tense. He returned her frightened gaze with a relentless stare, the air thick enough to be cut with a knife. Cameron drew a long, deep breath to steady her nerves, and made a move to put the shackles back on.

"_NO!_" he shouted in protest went he saw what she was doing. He lashed out and backhanded her across the cheek; she staggered backwards and reached for the drawer where the sedatives were stored. When she turned around again, her eyes widened in shock – he'd jumped out of the bed and was standing in front of her, everything about his body language reading as absolute fury.

"Get back in bed," she ordered, trying and failing to keep her voice from trembling.

The corners of his mouth tugged up. "You're gonna make me?" he challenged.

"Do you want me to call the nurses to put you in the cuffs again?"

The malicious smile vanished, and in the blink of an eye, he lunged forward and shoved her, _hard._ The move caught her off guard, and she fell back against the cupboard, the syringe with the sedative clattering across the floor and vanishing underneath the bed.

By the time she regained her breath, he was gone.

* * *

A/N: Okay, sorry I didn't get this posted before I left, there was a huge rush and I got tangled up in packing etc. Anyways, here it is, it's 6:30pm here which means it's about 11:30am on the East Coast, and I hope you liked it! Reviews are MORE than welcome!


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

"Hey, Brenda."

The lilted voice made Nurse Brenda look up from her desk, the wheel of the ship she ran with a firm hand and strict order worthy of a Navy captain, to see the Aussie doctor on the surgical staff studying a file on the countertop. "Hello, Dr. Chase," she greeted him back. She knew well enough that he was a kissass, but at least he was polite. Not to mention the fun that his betting pools always provided for all the departments.

"How are your kids?" he idly inquired, not looking up from the charts.

"Oh, they're—" she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes moving to the person suddenly standing behind him. "Dr. Wilson?"

Chase turned around, his features bending into a puzzled and worried frown as he took in the sight of an unhealthy Wilson, wearing nothing but a hospital gown, his eyes glazed over and his cheeks sunken. He was paying attention to neither Chase nor Brenda, but instead was looking around the lobby, appearing confused and lost. "Wilson?" Chase said, taking a couple steps towards him. "You okay?" Over his shoulder to the ever-omniscient Brenda, he spoke rapidly in an undertone, "Since when has he been sick?"

Brenda thought quickly, sorting through the gossiped stories she'd picked up from her staff. "Two days," she replied.

Chase took another step. "What are you doing down here, Wilson?"

The Australian jumped when the oncologist's head whipped round, his feverish gaze honing in on him. "Why aren't you in bed?" Chase ventured.

"She had a needle," Wilson responded, his eyes wide and jumpy.

The younger doctor tried not to appear worried and instead asked calmly, "Who did?"

"They had me tied down," he continued. People in the lobby were starting to take notice of the strange-looking patient standing in the middle of the floor, and they were staring. Chase was starting to get uncomfortable, so he reached for Wilson's elbow to guide him back upstairs.

Before he could make physical contact, however, a gruff voice interrupted. "Don't touch him," House ordered, stepping out from the elevator and limping towards them.

"Why not? What happened to your face?"

"Wilson doesn't like his personal space bubble to be invaded," House said, answering both questions. His team members were emerging from behind him and slowly circling around Wilson, cutting off his escape routes. The sick man's glassy eyes jumped from face to face, knowing he was cornered and trying to find some loophole he could wriggle through. Chase and Brenda watched the tense scene take place: the team slowly closed the circle, corralling Wilson in their center.

Now, the spectators were beginning to accumulate, patients, doctors, and visitors all crowding the lobby from the front entrance to the elevators. It was only a few moments before the hullabaloo reached the keen eyes and ears of the hospital administrator, and she swooped in from her perch in her office, the clicking of her heels the only sound besides Wilson's heavy breathing.

"Brenda, what is going on?" Cuddy demanded.

"I'm not really sure, Doctor," the head nurse replied in an undertone. "He must have gotten out of his ward, somehow."

"Sedated patients don't just walk out of their wards!"

"This one did. Stay back!" House snapped at the security guards who were closing in. For once, he was more focused on his patient than Cuddy's feminine advantages, despite the fact that they were in the same room.

She was about to tell him to let the guards handle it when Wilson tried to break through the circle between Taub and Thirteen. Reacting as quickly as he could, the former plastic surgeon dropped down low and slammed his shoulder into the oncologist's stomach football-style. Wilson staggered backwards and clutched his abdomen, wheezing. Thirteen saw an opportunity and made her move, honing in with a syringe at the ready. Wilson looked up just as she came closer, the needle glinting in her hand. His eyes flew open angrily and he collided with her, his arms whipping her around and sending her tumbling across the floor to Foreman's feet. As the neurologist helped her to stand again, Kutner attempted to take Wilson down from behind. The moment he tried, though, Wilson spun and shoved him into the wall. Kutner's arm flailed to try to stop the impact, and a loud _crack_ and the subsequent yell of pain sent the other doctors into frenzy.

Foreman encircled his arms from behind, the oncologist's sick body no match for Foreman's healthy one, and Wilson screamed in protest, kicking out and trying his best to pull free. Taub was, after a good amount of struggle, able to grab his legs and keep them down, giving Thirteen a shot at his thigh with the sedative injection. The excellent marksman that she was, she hit the bull's-eye. As Kutner leaned against the wall, his face pinched and his wrist clutched to his chest, Wilson gave a few last struggling kicks before slowly sinking to the floor, harmless.

It wasn't until after a couple of EMTs from the ER came in and loaded Wilson onto a stretcher that the spectators began to dissipate. Kutner went with Foreman to get his wrist x-rayed to see what the damage was, Taub and Thirteen were drawn aside to speak with Cuddy, and House headed back upstairs. He had some research to do.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: A MILLION thanks for this chapter to my awesome beta and friend, ItsTimeToDance, for her ideas on the differentials!!

* * *

_Chapter Nine_

Taub and Thirteen returned to the differential room several minutes later after filling Cuddy in as much as they could on the situation, their lab coats rumpled from their tangle with Wilson. House's raised voice reached them as they took their seats at the table. Shamelessly eavesdropping, they watched through the glass wall as Cameron, looking absolutely miserable, seemed to shrink smaller and smaller, and House loomed above her, shouting angrily.

"That was a _colossally _stupid thing to do!" he yelled. "What the hell were you thinking?!"

"I just—"

"This is _exactly_ why I'm glad you're not on my team! You always let your emotions take over your rationality and it _always_ ends up hurting the patient!" Thirteen and Taub thought they had never seen House so furious, and their jaws dropped slightly as he drove it home, hitting Cameron right where she was most vulnerable. "Dammit, caring about everybody so much is not going to bring your husband back!" he roared, his face turning an unusual shade of red. Cameron cowered even further. "Because of your_ idiocy_, Kutner now has broken wrist, and Wilson – _if_ he gets better – will be lucky to keep his job here!"

"I'm sorry," Cameron whimpered, barely audible.

House's electric blue eyes flared, and he pointed his finger accusingly at her, his voice dropping to a growl as he enunciated every syllable. "Stay away from my patient."

She bit her lip to stop it from trembling, then turned and walked out as fast as she could, hiding her face in her hands.

House limped into the conference room, his face slowly restoring its normal color. "Okay, what have we got?"

"It's…six o'clock," Thirteen ventured. "Your shift ended an hour ago."

"What, you never heard of working late?" House deflected. "I repeat: what have we got?"

"Amber went to South America," Taub said, re-opening their late colleague's history on the table in front of him. "Two summers ago. A trip to the jungles of Peru for three weeks. I called up her parents; they said it was a big birthday present."

"Does it matter why she went?" House asked. Without giving Taub time to answer, he continued. "Anything she could have gotten there?"

"Even if she had, it wouldn't make sense. The disease is progressing way too fast," Thirteen replied. "She and Wilson only met six months ago; if she'd caught something in Peru, she'd have been sick long before then."

House sighed heavily. "What are we missing?" he said, his frustrated words punctuated by a few hard beats of his cane on the floor.

"What about diabetes?" Taub suggested. "You brought it up earlier."

"Diabetes can cause malnutrition, seizures, even insomnia and bradycardia," Thirteen agreed. "But I don't think these particular psych symptoms or the bleed could be caused by something metabolic. Aggression, sure, but dementia? And what about the fever?"

House's brow knit together and, as his two minions threw their ideas back and forth, he drowned out their conversation with thoughts of his own, sorting through each and every move Wilson had made in the last two days.

"House? You still with us?" Taub brought him back to reality a few minutes later.

He didn't respond right away, instead scratching his stubbled chin and turning to stare out the window, looking at nothing in particular. "It's not dementia," he said quietly.

"What?"

House turned around, speaking louder and faster now that he was more sure of his sudden realization. "He doesn't have dementia."

"House, he's ripped out his IV, attacked us—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it, he's crazy," he interrupted. "But it's not dementia. Dementia affects the brain in very specific areas; mainly the memory and the ability to think logically. And now for my big finish…" House paused dramatically, erasing _dementia_ from the whiteboard. "Wilson is still thinking logically."

Thirteen's jaw dropped slightly. "Are you sure _your_ memory's working?" she asked incredulously. "You want me to bring you a mirror?"

"I'm not about to forget that I have six inches of gauze taped to my face," House countered. "Despite the fact that Wilson is, yes – at the moment – crazy, he can still think pretty damn well for a crazy person. Didn't you notice that when he was trying to make his getaway downstairs that he went for the gap between you two?"

Taub responded, "Yeah, we noticed; what exactly does that have to—"

"At first glance, the two of you are the weakest out of the team. Taub, you're middle-aged and tiny, and Thirteen, well, let's face it, you're a woman. Wilson, having never been in a fistfight with any of you, would naturally assume this and try to break through the wall where the bricks seem to be crumbling. Making sense?" House paused to make sure they were following before continuing, speaking more rapidly than before. "When Cameron goes in to check on him, he knows that she's the wimpy one and takes advantage of it. Again, crumbling bricks."

House didn't bother to further highlight his discovery by mentioning that Wilson had also hit _him_ right where his wall was crumbling. As the extreme nonconformist that he was, he rarely had any reason to be guilty, but when he did…

"So…the fact that he attacked me and Hadley over Foreman and Kutner, and took advantage of Cameron's stupidity…means that he's not crazy?" Taub summarized doubtfully.

"In a nutshell, yeah."

"Okay, well, if it's not dementia, what is it?"

House hesitated, a rare behavior. "I have no idea."

* * *

"Yowch," Kutner winced, sucking air through his teeth as Foreman poked and prodded his bruised forearm.

"I'm being as gentle as I can," the neurologist assured him.

"I know, it just hurts," Kutner grimaced.

"Well," Foreman said, standing straight again and casting another glance at the x-ray he'd taken earlier of Kutner's injury. "It's definitely broken."

"Dammit."

"Hey, at least your insurance is covered by the hospital," Foreman reminded him.

A hint of a smile crossed Kutner's face. "Yeah, I guess. Still, how the hell'd he get out?"

Foreman shook his head. "Beats me. The nurse probably didn't tighten one of his wrist shackles all the way; he knows how to unfasten them, and once one hand is loose…"

"Taub was the one who put the cuffs on, not a nurse," Kutner said. "He knows how to tighten them."

Foreman shrugged. "Then maybe he made a mistake."

Kutner sighed, pulling himself off the exam table. "I don't suppose it really matters how he got out; the damage is done. Come on, let's go put a cast on this thing." As they headed for the ER, Kutner mused aloud, "Hey, you think I could get Thirteen to do all of my paperwork until the cast comes off?"

Chuckling, Foreman replied, "I would've tried to pull the same thing on Cameron. She already did all of House's charts in addition to her own, what's one more stack?"

Kutner changed the subject, and with it, the mood of their conversation. "What do you think Wilson has?"

The neurologist frowned and was silent for a few moments. "I…don't know. There's no way it could be any of the ones we've come up with. Rabies, no. Insecticide poisoning, no." He sighed heavily, giving his head a shake. "I've never seen this before. And…the fact that it's Wilson makes me very nervous," he admitted.

"Because he's a friend?"

"I wouldn't exactly say that Wilson is a friend; he's more of a close colleague. Or a mentor. Whatever," Foreman flapped a hand. "It doesn't matter. Anyways, no, it makes me nervous because I know he's House's friend, and it's obvious that House can't quite work at his full capacity because of that."

"Oh." Still maintaining his rookie status, Kutner hadn't yet learned to read the subtle signs that his boss unconsciously gave as to what was going on in his head, and he hadn't noticed what Foreman (ever the senior team member) had seen almost clear as day. "What do you suppose will happen if he can't figure it out?"

"I don't want to know," Foreman replied gravely. "Let's just hope that we never find out."

* * *

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update this, I was having trouble with the differentials. This chap is mostly a filler, but it'll speed up again real soon. Review!!


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10_

The outer office of the Diagnostics Department was empty but for Foreman, who was poring over a very thick neurology textbook, trying to find any clues he could as to Wilson's condition. His nose buried between the pages and his face pinched in concentration, he didn't notice Cuddy entering until she spoke loud enough to shake him back to the present.

"Sorry, didn't see you," Foreman apologized, sitting up straighter in the presence of the hospital administrator.

Cuddy flapped a dismissive hand and nodded to House, who was engrossed in something on his computer, a pen clamped between his teeth and his desk in disarray with overlapping stacks of open textbooks and medical magazines piled one on top of another. "He hasn't gone home yet?"

Foreman glanced at his boss and shook his head. "No, he's shut himself in there for the past three or four hours."

"Where's the rest of the team?"

"Taub had to go home," Foreman answered. "Hadley's running a couple more tests, and Kutner I sent home early; he'll be back first thing tomorrow morning. Won't be able to use his left hand for a while, though."

"And you? It's almost eleven thirty, you should be home."

Foreman gave her a smile. "I just want to do everything I can to help House with this case."

"Go home," Cuddy ordered exhaustedly. "Get some sleep. There's nothing more you can do today."

Foreman sighed and did as he was told, closing the book and collecting his things. As he passed her on his way out, he gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and nodded good night. Once he was gone, Cuddy stepped through the door to House's office.

"We need to talk."

He turned around, the pen dropping into his lap. "About?"

Cuddy sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "House, do you think that you're too emotionally compromised to spearhead Wilson's case?"

He swiveled around in his chair, leaning back and regarding her levelly for a few moments. "Do you think I am?"

"I think it's quite possible," Cuddy replied candidly. "Probable, actually."

"Well, regardless of your concern for my emotional stability," House began, for once giving her no snide remarks or sarcastic responses. "This type of affliction is exactly what my department specializes in, and you know more than most that if _we _can't figure out what's wrong with him, there's a ninety-nine-point-nine percent chance that he'll die."

"I wasn't talking about your department, House, I was talking about you."

He frowned. "You can't take me off the case."

"I have the power to," Cuddy told him. "But I don't want to do that, because I know Wilson's chances of survival without you working on it."

"Then why—"

"I'm asking you for your professional opinion on this. Will Wilson's chances improve if I give this case to one of the people on your team?"

House sighed, giving his tennis ball a bounce on the floor. "No."

Cuddy leaned forward. "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

She was surprised when House seemed to actually give it serious thought before replying, "Yes."

She gave a nod and stood up. "Okay, then. Now go get some rest. As much as I like to see you finally putting a patient before yourself, I don't want to have to hire a new Oncology Department head just because his doctor wasn't getting enough sleep."

* * *

"House? House!"

The sleep-deprived doctor jumped, nearly falling off the recliner and squinting in the sudden brightness of the room. Rubbing his eyes, he let his retinas adjust to the light and saw Thirteen standing over him, looking concerned. "Did you sleep here?" she asked.

"What time is it?"

She glanced at her watch. "Almost seven thirty."

"How's Wilson?" he asked, barely managing to force his words through a yawn. Giving his head a shake to clear the static from his brain, he slowly pulled himself to his feet, wincing as his stiff bum leg stretched the gnarled scar tissue on his thigh. The book that had dropped onto his chest when he'd nodded off fell to the floor with a thud. Thirteen picked it up.

"No change since last night," she reported. "O2 sats are within normal range, maintaining a fever of 103—"

House groaned, dropping into his desk chair with a grunt. "Speak English, it's too early for medical mumbo-jumbo."

"How much sleep did you get last night?"

"Not enough to be running the marathon, but I won't be doing that anyway."

Rolling her eyes, Thirteen turned on her heel, heading into the outer office and shortly returning with his red mug full to the brim with coffee. House gulped it down, gave his head another shake, and said, "Okay, _now_ you can proceed with the mumbo-jumbo."

Thirteen repeated the information she'd given earlier. "Blood sugar's normal, too," she finished.

"There goes the diabetes theory." He tossed his giant tennis ball from hand to hand, lost in thought. "Thing is…"

"What?"

Whatever House had to say would have to wait, however, as Thirteen's pager began to beep on her hip. A few seconds later, House's pager echoed it; before he could reach across his desk and see the message, Thirteen had rushed out the door. His heart beginning to quicken nervously, House glanced at the screen, almost afraid of what he would see.

_#254: Code Blue._

Without a second thought, House was up and out the door as fast as his legs would carry him.

* * *

Foreman had come in early after a short night of restless tossing and turning with no hope of sleep, and was conversing quietly with Wilson's nurse as she changed his banana bag. The IV had been replaced after they'd decided to keep him fully sedated, and he now presented as much of a threat as a coma patient. Their conversation was soon interrupted by a warning beep from the monitors; Wilson's limbs were beginning to twitch. Foreman frowned and watched as his heartbeat began to climb.

"Diazepam," Foreman ordered the nurse as he wrapped an arm around Wilson's back, trying to turn him over onto his side. The sick oncologist's vertebrae rapidly moved up and down beneath Foreman's fingers as he shuddered, convulsing again and again. Still under the influence of heavy sedatives, Wilson didn't feel it when his involuntary movements began to worsen.

"He's seizing. Push two milligrams Ativan, stat!" the neurologist ordered, glancing back at the vitals monitor – his heart rate was still climbing fast. He returned his full attention to his patient just as frothing spittle began to seep out of Wilson's mouth. "He's aspirating. Suction!"

Thirteen tore into the room a few moments later, out of breath after having run down the two flights of stairs in her hurry. She rushed over to the bed opposite of Foreman and placed her fingers on Wilson's neck, keeping her eyes on the screens. "Get me the crash cart!" she shouted to the nurse.

Keeping as firm a hold on Wilson as he could, Foreman argued, "Are you sure he's gonna crash? His heart rate's through the roof, but it's holding steady—"

"It won't be for long," Thirteen shook her head, grabbing the paddles from the cart as the nurse wheeled it in. Sure enough, it was less than three seconds before Wilson suddenly stopped moving, and the monitors started to panic. The rapid ups and downs of the green ribbon panned out, and a continuous beep screamed that his heart had stopped.

"Flatline," Thirteen warned. Foreman quickly rolled him back over onto his back, and she placed the paddles on either side of his ribcage. "Charging… Clear!"

House limped in just as Thirteen sent a powerful charge through Wilson's chest with a solid-sounding _thunk_, making his body jerk. The line remained flat. House's reflexes kicked in and he dropped his cane by the door, rushing over and snatching the paddles from her. "Charging," he said, his heart beginning to race. "Clear!"

Another shock, no heartbeat.

"Charging," he said again. Thirteen, having moved to the side and out of House's way, circled around the bed to get a better view of the monitor. "Clear!" House yelled, giving another violent jolt. The electric charge did nothing.

The sudden likelihood that his friend wasn't going to make it hit House like a two-by-four, and his head spun, immediately feeling as if he was trying to breathe in a vacuum. He reached forward to shock Wilson again, but was stopped by Foreman, who gestured to the screen behind him. Turning around, House's hopes soared at what had to be one of the most welcome sounds he'd ever heard: the steady blips hailing Wilson's beating heart.

"I got a pulse," Thirteen said, her fingers on his wrist.

House limped over to the door and retrieved his cane, grateful for the support as he headed back towards his office. His team members followed him out, falling into pace behind him.

"More seizures means it's growing deeper into his head," Foreman stated. "Eating away at his brain."

House finished the neurologist's thought, saying what nobody – especially him – wanted to say. "If this keeps up much longer, the damage will be permanent. He could be a vegetable for the rest of his life."


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11_

"Kutner!" House greeted him loudly as the young Indian doctor walked in and sat down, a neon green cast around his forearm. "You missed your shining moment with the crash cart this morning."

Kutner looked confused. "My shining moment?"

"Actually, I suppose we should be glad that you weren't here," House corrected himself. "You set one patient on fire, then electrocute yourself on another… Who knows what could have happened this time? You might have cost Cuddy her Oncology Department head, and then I'd have to fire you for giving her something to yell at me about."

"Wilson's heart stopped?" Kutner realized, ignoring House's remarks.

His boss nodded, taking a large gulp of coffee from the mug in his hand. "At seven-thirty this morning, right after another seizure. He's lucky Foreman came in early."

Hooking his cane over the whiteboard, House erased all the symptoms, his arms moving tensely with a definite anger. "Start over," he said, his voice strained. "What do we already know about this disease?"

"It moves fast," Thirteen said. "Possibly delayed symptoms. AIDS doesn't present for ten to fifteen years, maybe this is something he got a long time ago."

"The symptoms are mainly affecting the brain," Taub added. "The nausea could be a result of the extreme agitation and stress. His heart could have stopped because his brain simply stopped sending signals to it. It's dying."

"There's also been no cases of it that I could find that have presented in the United States, so it must have come from somewhere else," Foreman mused.

"He hasn't traveled out of the country since he was twenty, and that was to Canada," House said.

"But Amber has," the neurologist replied. "Whatever he's got, it must be extremely hard to catch. She didn't present with symptoms even though she was carrying it."

House nodded. "You hear hoof beats, you think horses instead of zebras," he quoted. "But this isn't a zebra and it doesn't make noise. It's a poisonous snake in the grass." Scratching his chin for a few moments in thought, he ordered, "Research all possible causes originating from Central and South America. Bring me any and all ideas you come up with, even the dumb ones."

* * *

House was frustrated. Actually, 'frustrated' was a vast understatement. His mind normally ran like clockwork, perfectly fitting the pieces into the puzzle as they came, but this was different. He wasn't used to having to diagnose someone he knew personally – well, he'd diagnosed Foreman a couple years ago, but he didn't really give a crap about him. Just the puzzle. Now, the two sides were conflicting, and it was sending his rationality to Hell in a hand basket.

His thoughts bouncing back and forth in his skull like his oversized tennis ball, he limped into Wilson's room, sending the attending nurse out as soon as she finished changing his banana bag.

Honestly, this was the last place House wanted to be. What he _really _wanted was to head up to the roof and think it out, but the roof wouldn't give him any ideas. It was just a place to get some alone time when he couldn't organize his personal thoughts, and since this was a massive rat's nest of personal and professional, he figured that this was the place that might give him some inspiration. After all, no inspiration on this particular case meant that Wilson was going to die, so it seemed only logical. Sitting in the chair next to the bed, House rested his hands on his cane and studied his unconscious friend.

If Wilson had looked awful before he was bedridden, it was nothing compared to what he looked like now. Even in chemically-induced sleep, he looked absolutely exhausted. The shadows beneath his eyes had deepened, and even his eyelids were beginning to look grey. His hair was starting to look greasy, too, and House made a mental note to send for the nurses to get him into a bath later that day. Noticing that Wilson's lips were cracked with fever and dehydration, House reached for the IV drip to up the fluids being put into his system.

However, he stopped when he saw the beads of cold sweat on Wilson's forehead. Frowning, House looked at the monitor. The fever was still hovering above one hundred, but not enough for an ice bath. Bending over, House pulled back the blankets and then the hospital robe to get a better look at Wilson's chest. He was covered in droplets of sweat – his arms, his legs, his stomach, even his neck. He double-checked the chart to see the amount of fluids being deposited into his body to counteract the dehydration, and saw that the level was far above the norm. And yet, Wilson wasn't responding to it.

_He's sweating it all out,_ House realized. Damn it, he _knew_ this! It was at the front of his brain, on the tip of his tongue, and yet he couldn't quite grasp it. God _damn_, that was aggravating.

Snatching a pair of rubber gloves from the dispenser on the wall, he proceeded to poke and prod Wilson's limbs, searching for _anything_ that would give the final clue. When his arms and legs and abdomen proved clean, House went for his neck. While feeling beneath Wilson's chin, House frowned, remembering something that may have been mentioned during his years in med school, or he might have seen it on television a long time ago. Gently, he opened Wilson's mouth, using his penlight to peer in. With his gloved fingers, House lifted the oncologist's upper lip to get a better look at his teeth.

His teeth were slightly yellowed from a few days without brushing, but they looked…off. They appeared to be in good shape, but…they were _long._

"Oh, _crap,_" House breathed.

* * *

House stood staring at the whiteboard and twirling his cane as his four minions tumbled into the outer office.

"You paged us?" Taub asked.

"Forget your research," House said, turning around and thumping his cane a couple times on the carpeted floor. "We have a diagnosis."

House moved aside so that they could read the two words he'd scrawled on the board in large, bold letters. Thirteen's eyebrows shot up. "Vampirism?" she read aloud, almost laughing at how ridiculous it sounded. "You can't be serious."

The other three looked equally dumbfounded. "Did anybody call Transylvania?" Taub asked. "Maybe they're missing one."

"_Peruvian_ vampirism," House corrected, "is not, in fact, the result of venom from a creature of the night, but like many other diseases, is caused by little tiny things called viruses. I'm sure you've all heard of this phenomenon, being doctors and all."

"I've never heard of any actual illnesses that go by 'vampirism' before, House. Peruvian or otherwise," Foreman stated doubtfully.

"Well, lucky for Wilson, I happened to watch a late-night Discovery Channel program a few years ago that mentioned it. Amazing what TV can do for you, isn't it?" House went to pour himself a cup of coffee as the team members sat around the table, listening intently as he explained. "There have been only three other cases of this in the United States, because it's rarely transferred to humans and even more rarely to tourists. Amber went to Peru on a rainforest safari; she went on long overnight hikes and, at some point during her trip, was bitten by a bat."

House leaned against the board as he spoke. "The Incas used to attribute this disease to demons infecting the body and, instead of treating them, sacrificed the victims to the gods. Then, when the Conquistadores invaded, they blamed it on the undead, hence the overdramatic name." He began to pace back and forth restlessly.

"The main symptom that convinced the Spaniards of vampirism was the receding of the gums as a result of malnutrition, creating the illusion of growing teeth. Also, the virus often creates small sores in the sinuses where it eats away at the tissue, causing the veins to open up and bleed through the eyes and nose, which in turn builds up pressure behind the eyeballs and makes the victim über-sensitive to light. Coincidentally, legend has it that vampires can't go out in sunlight. The sweating and delirium are both direct results of the high fever." House punctuated his medical monologue with a sip from his mug; a deliberate dramatic pause.

"And, to make things worse," he continued, "the virus attacks specific brain tissues, causing a short-circuit that usually makes the afflicted behave highly aggressive and gradually lose their memory, in addition to making their motor skills and vitals go haywire."

"That's why his heart stopped?" Kutner said dubiously.

House nodded. "And why he had the seizures. It's also known as the South American bat lyssavirus. Evolutionary cousin to rabies, ladies and gentlemen. Except, compared to rabies, it's the cousin nobody wants to invite to Thanksgiving dinner."

Thirteen quirked an eyebrow.

"It's perfect," House emphasized. "It fits."

"What about the vomiting and nausea?"

"We were right the first time," House said. "Extreme levels of stress and nothing more."

"So what's the treatment?" Kutner asked.

"A lab in Brazil was able to develop a variation of the rabies shot that counters it during the '80s. Make some calls, have some shipped up here overnight, don't take no for an answer," House took a big gulp of his coffee and headed towards his office, tossing one last remark over his shoulder.

"Better get him a coffin. If we don't have it by morning, he might disintegrate."

* * *

A/N: Okay, so before you go eviscerating me for my extreme medical inaccuaries, please remember that this disease is, in light terms complete bullshit. I made it up, with some minor research on the rabies virus and Peruvian fauna. That being said, eviscerate away :)


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12_

~ _Four days later _~

The first thing that came to Wilson's mind was a stiff ache in his hips from lying down for so long. He groaned tiredly, cracking his eyes open and squinting in the bright fluorescent lighting.

"Hey," a female voice greeted him. "You're alive."

Blinking to rid his eyes of the blurriness, he attempted to sit up, his joints cracking. A gentle hand pushed him back down. "Don't move, you'll get dizzy."

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "What happened?" he grumbled. Finally, he was able to clear his vision and see that the person speaking to him was Thirteen.

"What's the last thing you remember?" she asked.

"Uh…" he tried to think. "Getting a CT, I think…"

She smiled, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "That was a week ago."

"Jesus Christ," he swore. He must be worse of than he thought.

"You're Jewish," a gruff voice said from the doorway.

Wilson tensed. "Go away," he said.

Thirteen headed for the door, feeling awkward. "I'm…gonna let you two talk."

House limped over to the foot of the bed. "You've been unconscious for the past two days, and under full sedation for three days before that."

"_What?_" Wilson cried, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Why the _hell—_ Whoa…" He gave his head a shake to try and clear the sudden blood rush.

"It's best if you take it slow," House advised.

Wilson ignored the advice and stayed where he was. "What happened to your face?" he asked.

"I pissed off a 300-pound cat," House answered.

"Yeah, right," Wilson said. "Did you find out what was wrong with me?"

House nodded. "South American bat lyssavirus."

Wilson's brows knitted together. "Lyssavirus? But that's—"

"It's a different string of the rabies virus more commonly known as Peruvian vampirism."

"You're pulling my leg."

House shrugged. "Well, the treatment worked," he said. "That's usually a sign that we got it right. Of course, I'm not sure the rest of the team is ever going to forgive you – we all had to get shots. Hurt like a bitch, too."

The sound of the door sliding open alerted them to the entrance of another visitor. "Good to have you back, Dr. Wilson," Cuddy said, leaning in. "House, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"The lady beckons," House said dramatically, following her out the door.

"I just wanted to let you know that I was able to…juggle some things around, and since nobody's pressing any charges against Wilson for the incident in the lobby…" she began. "As far as the paperwork is concerned, it never happened."

A smile crept onto House's face. "Well, I'll be damned. Dr. Cuddy has taken a leaf out of my book."

Cuddy grinned. "He'll be able to keep his job here for as long as he wants. And _you_," she tapped his chest. "You can go back to doing your clinic hours."

"You mean blowing them off."

Cuddy answered by rolling here eyes and re-entering Wilson's room. "How are you feeling?" she asked him, going to stand by the side of the bed.

"Better," Wilson answered.

House hovered in the doorway for a moment before turning to leave.

"House," Wilson called.

The gruff diagnostician stopped, poking his head back in. "What?"

"Thank you."

"Wilson, I would do _anything_," he said, entirely serious, "to get out of clinic duty."

END


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